


If Thou Must Love Me

by ClutchHedonist, writingramblr



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, First Kiss, M/M, Marital Strife, Mild Smut, Oral Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Valeting, a fuckload of it, some serious victorian-ass pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 10:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9175663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClutchHedonist/pseuds/ClutchHedonist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/pseuds/writingramblr
Summary: (Victorian AU, valet!Credence and aristocrat!Graves)“You brought on new staff?” Graves finally asks her as the dinner dishes are being cleared from the table.“Oh! Yes.” She reports, “Miss Wakefield, in the kitchen? She was married over the winter. Avery recommended Mrs. Blair in her place. Scamander, to care for the garden and the stables.”“There was a boy I saw earlier-”Her eyes flick up to him, and she watches him for a long moment, “…Oh?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> The first-ever collab for the both of us! 
> 
> If you're looking to chat (or to fill up our inboxes with smutty headcanons and ficlet prompts), you can find writingramblr [here](http://sozdanie-gryazi-eternal.tumblr.com/) and clutchhedonist [over here](http://clutchhedonist.tumblr.com/)!

 ‘ _My Dearest Tina,_

_Finally, the summer begins and I can return to the estate. I grow weary of the city and the constant hustle and bustle, though I try to put on an indifferent front. I must say that I miss the horses as well._

_I hope you’re keeping yourself well. Please write Father and tell him to bring himself and Mother down as soon after I am to return. I fear it has been too long._

_I trust that your sister is staying out of trouble? She could stand to take her cues from you, more stable and less wild. Then again, perhaps that’s asking too much._   _I jest, of course. The Kowalski’s are a welcome addition to the house, should they decide to visit over the summer._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Percival’_

* * *

 

 

As he climbs into the carriage to start the long journey home (and finally get out of the noisy and rowdy city) Graves lets out a long sigh. 

It might not be fun, and it would likely be just as much effort as he put in at work, but he had missed the fair companionship of his wife Tina. The last time he’d been home for a summer, just after they had been married, she had taken ill from one of the day’s early meals, whether at breakfast or lunch, and by dinnertime, she’d had a high fever and given Graves more than a good scare. The servant responsible had been sent home, told not to return until they were well themselves, and had never been heard from again.

Graves couldn’t say he minded, but it had been a tense few weeks afterward, trying to juggle the remaining servants around the new load of work, and ensuring that there was a proper doctor at Tina’s side. Eventually, she returned to full health, but it was almost fall by then. Somehow, Graves had never once been forced to share her room or bed. He doubted god would give him such a good excuse again.

The carriage ride is long and tiring, and Graves finds himself dozing off more than once. It isn’t until there’s a truly horrendous dip in the road that jolts him awake that he realizes how long he’s been sleeping, fitful though it had been. Sunshine is making its way through the heavy cloud cover, and the position of the sun tells him how close they’re getting to the house.

The carriage comes to a sudden halt, and he sighs.

 “What’s the meaning of this?” He calls out to the driver, but receives no reply.

Graves opens the door and climbs down, moving around the front of the carriage to see what indeed had made them stop.

The driver is speechless, merely pointing to an enormous turtle walking slowly across the road, and a man with a long blue jacket running towards them, hair orange as a pumpkin, glinting in the sunlight.

“You there, is this creature yours?”

The man draws close enough to speak and Graves is surprised to note how softly he does, as though his voice might frighten the turtle.

“I’m so sorry, I had no idea Frank had gotten this far from the pond. I’ll just be a moment, help him along and then you can continue up to the house, Mister Graves. You’re early. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

Percival blinks at the man, “Who are you?”

He manages a small smile, and ducks into a short bow, “Newt Scamander, sir, at your service. I’m the new groundskeeper. And now you’re here! It’s a pleasure to meet you sir.”

Percival takes the man’s offered hand and shakes it, feeling more and more in need of a real nap, preferably after a large glass of his best whiskey.

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

  

* * *

 

The estate is, without fail, wider than he remembers it at the beginning of each summer, broad expanses of lawn unfolding out across the horizon, the house sky-wreathed and bright. Arriving at it is a whirl of light and color, staff fluttering past and dogs bounding up to greet him. The brilliant greens and yellows of the outdoors melt into whites and blues as he steps over the threshold, gauzy summer curtains and the swirling banisters in the front hall.

The butler, unfailingly upright, spritely despite his advanced age, is already behind him to take his coat as soon as he hears the door close.

“Welcome home, sir.”

Graves passes him a small nod, “Avery.”

“Your study is prepared for your arrival, sir. Mrs. Graves begs your pardon for not being present to receive you. She will be returning shortly before dinner at seven – she is visiting with Mrs. Kowalski.”

“Thank you, Avery.”

Food makes for easier small talk. It’s a clever arrangement, and he credits her for the relief that settles in his chest. He’s about to begin down the hall towards his study when he glimpses of Avery handing off his coat and hat. There’s something soft in the set of the boy’s sharp jaw, the dark curls that surround it only serving to further frame the high arch of his cheeks. His arm is crooking to accommodate Graves’s travelling coat, slim fingers plucking the hat from Avery’s hand, and then he’s flickered around the corner of the hall, out of sight. Avery, too, is gone with him, and Graves finds his mouth falling closed around his piqued curiosity.

When Graves has sunken into his chair in the study, it’s the boy who brings his tea tray, sets it down on the low table between the chair and sofa with a wordless hint of a smile. Graves murmurs half of a “thank you” into his book before he catches sight of the dark slash of his brow. By the time the book is pressed shut, he’s already ducked a bow and slid, mercurial, from the room. Graves is half-asleep, the book on his chest, when he returns to take the dishes, only barely opening his eyes to the tight line of the boy’s back silhouetted in the doorframe. He feels his gaze begin to skim downward and forces it back to the book before it can betray him.

Avery is the one to call him to dinner, and Graves nods and rubs the weariness from his jaw as he makes his way down the hall. One of the dogs tumbles past him, excited, and he huffs a faint laugh after it. She must have only just arrived.

The candelabra in the center of the cherrywood table is already lit when he steps through the door. And there she is, long and slender with her dark hair swept up off her forehead, smiling that tight smile, equal parts worried and hopeful. Tina, bright eyed and beautifully boyish, even draped in silk.

“Mrs. Graves.”

She rises, and he crosses the room to her, sets one hand at her waist and presses a small kiss into the apple of her cheek. She chuckles softly and lets her head rest, for a moment, on his shoulder.

“It’s good to see you.” She tells him.

“You look lovely.”

She blushes, gives another small laugh as she takes her seat once more.

“How was your sister?” He asks, sinking down into his own.

Tina nods, “Well.”

“Is Mr. Kowalski still doting on her?”

“I’m rather certain he’ll always be.” She smiles, and this time the light in her eyes is without worry.

Graves quirks a crooked smile. They watch each other for a few moments, and then Tina’s gaze drops haltingly down onto the table settings. The smile passes from his lips.

“I-…” He begins, quieter.

“I had Mrs. Hayward make certain it was all your favorites tonight.” She speaks up quickly, “I- …you must have- dinner is always so rushed in the city, so I thought that-…I hope you like it.”

He pushes for another smile, “Thank you.”

She nods, too quickly, and for a second too long.

They stumble through the weather, Queenie and Jacob’s health, the latest wedding and birth announcements, the growing strength of Graves’s business in the city.

“You brought on new staff?” He finally asks her as the dinner dishes are being cleared from the table.

“Oh! Yes.” She reports, “Miss Wakefield, in the kitchen? She was married over the winter. Avery recommended Mrs. Blair in her place. Scamander, to care for the garden and the stables.”

“There was a boy I saw earlier-”

Her eyes flick up to him, and she watches him for a long moment, “…Oh?”

“Slim, dark hair, very quiet.”

She nods slowly, “The new valet. Barebone.”

Graves cocks his head, “What happened to Forge?”

“His mother in the city took ill.” Tina’s lips purse, “I sent an advance to her doctor with him. I hope you don’t mind.”

He shakes his head quickly, “No, no, I-”

“Do you like him?” She asks.

“The boy?”

“Mm.”

He can feel her eyes on him, and the inquiry feels heavier in his chest than it has any right to, “…Seems efficient.”

Tina nods slowly.

Over dessert, they discuss the visit that his parents have been meaning to make to the estate. He agrees, gruffly into his coffee, to a dinner party the next month. When they retire to the drawing room, he nurses only a single glass of rye before surrendering to the travel-weariness in his bones. Tina remains behind, a book perched on her knees, promises to join him later in the evening. He imagines that she’ll pass the night in one of the adjoining bedrooms, claiming to have stayed up too late, not wished to disturb him by returning to their bed. He would do the same if she were the first in bed, an unspoken agreement a year and a half in the making.

 

* * *

 

When he awakens, it’s the tall, dark-haired boy he’s seen around the manor, holding up his shoes, freshly polished, and asking him what he’d like to wear for the day.

Brown and black, or green and khaki?

Graves blinks, “…Whichever you prefer.” Damnit. Why had he said that?

Big brown eyes stare at him from behind glasses that only served to emphasize the sharp cheekbones and long strands of brown hair framing his face.  _Damnit._

Graves tries to keep from looking directly at him, like playing hide and seek with the sun while skeet shooting. It doesn’t quite work, considering how often the boy, Credence, he remembers from the staff register, touches him to help him into his shirt, his vest, and then his jacket, to say nothing of smoothing his hands over the sage green trousers that he’s had selected. It takes all of Graves’s considerable self-control to keep from focusing on those points of contact, scrolling through figures and statistics in his head, distracting himself from the valet kneeling at his feet, ensuring his socks are fastened high enough into the garters on his calves.

“If you would step into your shoes, sir.”

When Credence speaks, it almost startles Graves, and he looks down to see the long, elegant-fingered hands urging him to do just that, slide his sock covered feet into the black leather shoes so polished they could almost be used as a mirror.

“Thank you, Barebone. That will be all.”

“But sir, your tie.”

Graves is already patting a hand to his chest, fully prepared to insist the boy leave and let him tie his own damn tie, but he’s already there, standing in front of him, only a few scant inches between their bodies. Graves decides that he may have actually died from dinner the night before, that Tina had poisoned him to get rid of him, and he couldn’t say he blamed her too much. And now he’s in hell, being tortured, driven mad by his new valet.

It is completely possible.

The boy’s hands on his chest, at his neck, carefully wrapping the knot proper and centering it just below his throat, and then moving to straighten his collar, burn into Graves like brands through the fabric, like hellfire. He fists his own hands at his sides to resist the urge to touch him, to yank him close by the back of his neck and taste those pink, tempting lips.

“There you are, sir, all done.”

Credence is giving him a kind smile, perhaps all nerves and apprehension gone, and Graves stares back, drinking in the sight of him before it’s too late, and he wakes from the dream or nightmare that his morning had become.

“Thank you, Barebone.”

The boy ducks his head and bows slightly, “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

Graves swallows thickly, considers how quickly Tina would find out if he told Credence to get back down on his knees for him, bend over the bed frame and…

No.

“Please send someone to make the bed, and inform Mrs. Graves I’ll be down to breakfast shortly.”

Credence is nodding, and he has to reach up to push his glasses back up his nose, “Of course sir. Right away.”

Then he’s gone.

Graves is left staring at the bedroom door, still slightly ajar, cursing all that was good and holy for god daring to put such a creature in his life, only to keep it completely out of reach and off limits.

 

* * *

 

He realizes, in preparing for his parents’ arrival, that perhaps a month was too little time. It’s been a year and a half since he’s hosted Gondolphus and Cordelia, since just after the wedding, and without an heir to show for his efforts, he’s hard pressed to impress. He arranges for a pheasant shoot with his father, a dinner party with the Kowalskis. Checks and double checks that Tina has drafted a menu that agrees with their tastes. When the week of their visit arrives, he bears down on the staff, meticulously inspects the cleanliness of each room and the ripeness of the produce in the larder.

The afternoon before their arrival, he finds himself in the kitchen, cursing quietly as he searches the shelves for a fresh bottle of rye, having discovered the one in the liquor cabinet already empty. He’s not entirely certain when he polished it off. It takes a few minutes for him to procure one from one of the upper shelves, and the moment it’s in his hands, he’s uncorking it on the kitchen counter and pouring himself two fingers.

He leans one hip against the counter, sighs down into it, breath momentarily fogging the glass, and then a flash of strawberry blonde catches his eye from the kitchen window. The new gardener – Graves’s brows knit as he works to remember his name ( _Scamander,_ that’s it) – is striding past one of the fountains towards the hedge garden, a set of shears slung over his skinny shoulder. The summer sun has flecked his cheeks with even more freckles than Graves remembers, and his hair is a sweat-slick tangle of curls.

He’s swallowing the burn of the first belt of the rye when he sees Tina, parasol fringe swaying in time as she steps along the hedge. Her rhythm stutters when she spots the gardener. Graves arches an eyebrow. He watches her smooth her skirts and brush a few stray hairs off her forehead before she begins forward once more. Something sparks in the man’s light eyes as their paths meet.

Graves feels his stomach twist as she laughs, laughs in earnest at something the gardener tells her, bashfully running one hand back up through his hair. His gaze is fixed somewhere around her right shoulder, but his lips are quirked into a broad smile, and Tina’s eyes are bright. He slugs back another mouthful of rye. It isn’t as if he hasn’t had his own series of… _considerations,_ but to see her look at someone, really look at someone-

He huffs faintly, and is another sip into his glass when the kitchen door swings open. The Barebone boy has Graves’s riding boots tucked into the crook of his arm, his long fingers wrapped around a brush and tin of polish.

“O-Oh, sir…” He stops at the sight of him, and his gaze drops down to the tiled floor, “I was just-…I’m sorry to interrupt.”

“No, no.” Graves brushes it off, “I’m only-” He shrugs, opening his arms, palms up, fading off.

“Y-Yes, sir. Sorry to bother you, sir.” The boy ducks his head, and a few curls sweep down over one dark brow. Graves clenches a fist around the sudden urge to push them back with his fingers, use his thumb to tuck them behind the boy’s ear.

“…Where are you from, Barebone?”

Credence blinks, glances up at the older man, “The city, sir.” He answers quietly.

“The city?” Graves’s brows knit, “What brings you all the way out to Rochester?”

The boy shifts his weight between his feet, “I-…my Ma, she-…passed, and I-” He blushes, stammers onward, “I thought perhaps the country would be-…that I might be better suited to it. Sir.”

Graves nods slowly, “And how did you come to be recommended to Mrs. Graves?”

“We were introduced by an acquaintance at church, sir.”

“Oh? By whom?”

“Mister Scamander, sir.”

Graves can’t help it. He glances out the window once more. Tina is smiling broadly as she closes her parasol just outside the side door. The gardener has just finished rolling up his sleeves to begin clipping the hedges. Graves feels a sudden tightness simply at his proximity to the boy. He throws back the dregs of his glass, setting it beside the sink. Credence’s eyes are on him, dark and quiet and in that cramped moment practically obscene in their juxtaposition with the softness of his mouth.

“Very good, Barebone.” He grunts.

The boy starts and jerks a quick nod, “Thank you, sir.”

Lips pursed, Graves returns the gesture. He allows himself another moment’s glance at the boy before he pushes back through the kitchen door and into the hall.

Tina’s gait stutters just outside the door, “Oh! Percival.”

His gut tightens, and he feels the heat rise in his cheeks. Her hand tightens on the handle of her parasol, and they stammer into motion all at once.

“I was just-”

“Yes, I-”

There’s a short pause as they both fall silent, waiting for the other to resume. Graves pushes forward first.

“Walking the gardens?”

“Y-Yes.” Tina tells him with a tight smile, “And you?”

He motions dismissively towards the kitchen, “Seeing that we’re ready.”

“Oh…” Her brows knit, and she nods slowly.

The tide of quiet rolls back in over them. Graves fishes in his waistcoat pocket for his watch.

“You should-” Tina begins, “You should get some rest today. Before they-”

He snorts, “The both of us.”

She breathes a thin laugh, “Yes, I suppose so.” A few seconds trickle by, and then she offers another minute smile, “I think I-…I think I’ll take tea in my parlor today. I’ll see you for supper?”

He nods in mute agreement.

Tina watches the wire-tight line in his broad shoulders as he goes. When he’s around the corner, she presses a palm to the kitchen door and opens it just a crack peek. Credence is perched on the bench in the corner, mouth set in concentration as he polishes Graves’s riding boots. She lets the door inch shut once more.

 

* * *

 

Credence has never been on a shoot before, and can count them number of times he’s been on horseback on two hands. He’s shined Graves’s boots until even the spots of reflected light in them are symmetrical, brushed his tweeds thrice, and has spent a good portion of the morning tying back his own combative curls. He had been pleasantly surprised when he received the order to accompany Mister Graves and his father on their hunt. Newt had given him a small warning to make sure to stand at least a couple yards away from anyone firing if he didn’t wish to be bathing off gunpowder residue.

Graves himself has been tight-lipped and queasy since the arrival of his guests. Credence can’t entirely blame him – his own Mother had been more than enough to give him pause on the best of days. They barely speak as Credence dresses him, and Graves’s eyes are hard when the boy hands him his cap.

“Thank you, Barebone.”

“Yes, sir.”

He trails out after him in the hall, out to the stables. Gondolphus, square-jawed and thin-lipped, is already watching one of the grooms saddle his horse.

“There you are.” He barks at the sight of Graves.

“Father.” Graves inclines his head a hint.

Gondolphus’s cheeks puff, “Always in your own time.”

Graves says nothing. Credence busies himself with assisting the grooms. By the time all the preparations for their small hunt are made, the dogs around their feet are bristling and huffing eagerly, and Graves’s cheeks are already drawn. When Graves mounts up, Credence clambers up onto his horse, the dapple grey shifting uncertainly beneath him. He sees Newt biting his lip from the corner of his eye. He silently prays that Gondolphus doesn’t notice the awkward tightness in his limbs, an addition to his list of insufficiencies for which Graves is forced to answer. The older man, however, seems bolstered by the imminence of the shoot, his gaze focused out over the grounds.

“Groundskeeper seems an interesting fellow.” He notes as they begin towards the wooded area of the estate.

Credence sees Graves stiffen, hears him toss back only a small “Mm” in reply.

“Wherever do you find these sorts?” Gondolphus chuckles, and color rises immediately in Credence’s cheeks as the man nods towards him.

“Mrs. Graves made the winter hires.” Graves answers, clipped.

Gondolphus raises an eyebrow, “Does she? I suppose it’s rather tedious for her, managing a house without children. One must occupy oneself somehow. She looks in good health, but you know, neither of you are getting much younger. Have you made plans?”

Credence sees Graves wince, almost imperceptibly, and he swallows back a remark in defense of the man. When Gondolphus opens his mouth to speak again, he turns to Graves, “O-oh, sir-”

Graves blinks and glances back over his shoulder. Credence struggles for substance to back the interruption.

“I-…er-…Mister Scamander mentioned that-…that it might be best to keep to the south side of the hunting grounds, there’s-…the spring runoff is still in the creeks in the north, so riding might be better nearer the southern border.” He stammers.

Graves’s gaze is quizzical for a moment, and then a slow, knowing smile overtakes him, “He’s right, the rains have been rather unseasonable this year, haven’t they, Father?”

Gondolphus huffs once more, “Unseasonable? Torrential. Absurd, trying to get in any good spring hunting.”

“…Thank you, Barebone.”

Credence, cheeks darkening, manages a small smile in return. When they finally dismount to shoot in earnest, his glasses are starting to slide down his nose as he sweats, and he shifts the box of bullets into the crook of his arm to push them back up.

“Boy, come here, hold my rifle, my hands are aching. Not what they used to be.”

He nods and rushes forward to comply, accepting the man’s still smoking gun, and watches as he stretches and flexes his arms before walking over to put an arm around his son’s shoulders.

“You need to ensure our line continues, my boy. Your wife adores you and will be a fine mother. Perhaps not as attentive as your own, but then again, how many women in the world are there like that? Ha-ha.” He claps the younger on his back before striding briskly off. Credence hangs back, unsure who to trail.

“Walk with me.” Graves finally says, giving the boy a sympathetic glance before jerking his head towards the trail.

The pheasants are out in force, and by the end of the shoot, they’ve taken at least fourteen or fifteen birds into the bag Credence is carrying behind them. They mount up once more, and Credence follows the pair of them back towards the house, only as far as the door. Then, he breaks away, heading for the kitchen to pass along the birds to the chef and his assistants.

“Thank you.”

The words from Mister Graves, the lord of the house, stop him in his tracks, and he turns so fast that feathers scatter around his feet.

“Oh, not at all sir. I’m happy to assist you and your father.”

Graves shuffles his feet slightly, “I’m sorry that you had to hear all that. Business and family talk can be equally dull. Still, it could be worse. He could want me to return to church. Become involved in politics.”

He’s smiling, and so Credence does the same, “Yes, sir. Very true, sir.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you, I’m certainly looking forward to dinner tonight, if nothing else.”

Before he can blink, the man is gone, striding off with his boots clicking on the floor, and Credence is left, shivering faintly, in the hall. When he finally makes it to the kitchen a few moments later, he’s pleasantly surprised to find Newt conversing with the cook. As he reveals the prized catch, he swears that Newt’s face falls a little.

“The lords of the manor have done a fine job in procuring their own feast.” Credence finds himself quipping, and Newt’s smile tightens.

“Yes, well, they certainly know how to make an impression on the local wildlife, don’t they? Be sure to check for stray pellets before you start cooking those.”

The cook looks almost insulted at Newt’s words, “This isn’t my first dinner with fowl or beast that Mister Graves has delivered to my kitchen. But I appreciate the advice.”

She winks at Credence as she accepts the net filled with deceased birds, before turning to his second in command. Credence sinks back into his usual spot in the kitchen, a plain stool tucked into the corner beside one of the counters. He’d felt welcomed when he joined the Graves’ staff and household, but some days more than others, he still can’t help feeling that he doesn’t quite fit with everyone else. Certainly there’s no one else with as many scars as he carries on his body, nor the amount of relief that he feels to  _be_  working, to be doing something with his hands other than trying to persuade people to attend a small town church to hear sermons of their own condemnation.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and shakes himself, returning to the present from his thoughts, and finds Newt watching him with more than a touch of concern.

“All right there, Credence?”

He nods, and Newt smiles again, not quite full wattage, but clearly more at ease, “Tell me, before we sit down to enjoy our portion of this feast, would you like to come help me feed the horses their own supper?”

Credence finds himself nodding before he could even form the words to an answer, and Newt’s smile brightens a little as he ushers him back out over the lawns and down into the stable, “Wonderful. I’m rather afraid to ask Mrs. Graves for more help, but it’s begun to become  _slightly_  overwhelming caring for the grounds and the creatures by myself. Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but it’s rather too much some days. I think I tend to sleep only when I push myself too far.”

Newt is laughing as he hands Credence a bucket of oats, but Credence isn’t too sure of the veracity of it, not when Newt’s words sound so strained.

“Hold your hand flat now, lest they mistake your fingers for carrots.” Newt is telling him as he holds up a handful of oats to the first horse, a midnight colored beast with sorrowful eyes.

“O-Oh, all right...” Credence nearly shies away from the horse, stretching his arm as far as he can, and flinching somewhat, squeezing his eyes almost closed.

“No, no, here, they can sense your fear. You need to trust yourself.” Newt’s hands are on his shoulders, urging him closer. Credence grits his teeth, and tries to do better.

The horse’s lips and teeth are enormous, but gentle as its tongue scoops up the grains from his palm. Credence lets out a huge breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when the large head finally retreats and lets out a snort before shaking its mane.

“Ah. There you go. Try again by yourself.”

The next three horses are much more focused on the food and not the hand offering it, so Credence has a bit of an easier time of it, and by the time the bucket is empty, his own stomach is growling. Newt chuckles, and Credence tries not to blush in embarrassment.

“Come along now. It’s time for us humans to get our dinner.”

The instant they return to the kitchen, Credence feels as if he could faint with delight at the smells of the cooked pheasant and the accompanying sides: potatoes and carrots with a whole loaf of brown bread leftover for just for him, Newt, and the cook to share once the Graves’ had been served.

“This is incredible, Mrs. Blair. I don’t know how you do it. It’s like magic.” Credence pauses to dip a piece of bread into his remaining gravy, and Newt grins crookedly over at him.

“Some days I think she does put a bit of something special into all her work, especially the desserts. When’s your birthday Credence? We’ll have to plan something, and Mrs. Blair can make you one of her incredible cakes.”

“Chocolate or vanilla, or maybe carrot?” She glances down at Credence’s half-empty plate and chuckles to herself.

Credence smiles in return, “I don’t know. I’ve never had an actual celebration for my birthday before… I’d have to think about it.”

“Lord in Heaven, are you serious?”

The cook’s eyes are wide, and Credence nods, feeling his cheeks grow warm again.

Newt clicks his tongue, the same sort of soothing noise he made to calm the horses earlier that evening, “Now, now, mum, leave the man be. No need to pry.” He turns to Credence, “You just come let us know whatever you decide, all right? I’m certain the Graves’ will be happy to give you the afternoon of the day in question off, if you just ask. They’re known to be quite accommodating.”

Credence ducks his head again, barely catching his glasses before they fall off. He tucks them into his front vest pocket before locking his eyes on the empty bowl in his hands, “…I don’t think I could ever ask for such a favor.”

Newt seems to consider for a moment, “I think you underestimate our masters, Credence.”

Maybe so.

 

* * *

 

The letter from Queenie arrives a few days after their dinner. Graves watches Tina’s jaw tighten as she reads through it at the breakfast table.

“She’s not well.” She tells him.

“Oh?”

“It-” She huffs with displeasure and casts a glance towards the window, “It’s all of this rain. She should know not to do so much visiting when it’s like this, she always catches cold.”

“How bad is it?” Graves asks quietly.

Tina sighs again, “The doctor is coming from town this morning.”

Graves blinks, looks to the window, where sheets of rain have been steadily falling since the early morning, “…Today?”

“If he’s coming today, it’s got to be bad.” Tina’s wringing her hands in her lap, “I should-”

“Tina, you’re not going to visit her in this. You’ll both be sick.”

“B-But if the doctor’s there, I-”

“I’m sure he’ll send over a full report.”

Tina frowns, “In a few days, maybe. I’ve not even replied to her letter yet, and God knows how long it’ll take for that to get to her in this.”

Graves sighs, “The roads will be too muddy for the carriage.”

“Then I’ll ride.”

“You will  _not_ ride out in this.”

“Percival, she’s-”

“Mother and Father will think I’ve sent you out to catch your death of cold.” He hisses.

She rolls her eyes, “They’re-”

“Upstairs as we speak.” He cuts her off with a sharp motion upward, and then, voice lower, “Probably listening.”

“Then at least send your man to get the report.” Tina tells him, fingers curling.

Grave blinks, “Barebone? In this?”

“Or I’m going.”

He sits back in his seat with a sigh, “…Fine.”

 

* * *

 

When he finally rattles the key into the lock of the servant’s entrance door once more, the edge of Credence’s vision is blurred with shaking. The doctor’s report is tucked somewhere against his chest – he’s not been able to feel it there since halfway through the second leg of the journey, but he suspects it may be the only dry part of him left. Avery is puffing at him the second he’s in the door, peeling his drenched coat from his shoulders and laying it over the radiator.

“Oh, my dear boy, you-”

“Wh-where is M-Mister Graves?” Credence stutters.

“In his study, but you-”

Credence pushes his face into his own shoulder, forcing his soaked hair back out of his eyes, “I h-have M-Mrs. Graves’s report-”

“Give it over, then, I’ll take it to him.” The older man offers quickly, “You must get warm.”

Credence coughs, shakes his head as he wrings out the cuffs of his shirt, “I-I’ll do it.” He tells him, then slips past and into the hall.

Most of the lamps have already been put out for the night, a few solitary candles dotting the way. He clenches and opens one hand a few times to bring enough blood back into his fingers to fumble the letter free.

“S-Sir?” He knocks on the study door with his other fist, still trembling.

He hears motion inside the room, and then Graves is pulling the door back in front of him, close.

“Good lord.”

“The doctor’s report, sir” Credence murmurs and offers the envelope to him.

Graves plucks it from his hand and, only half paying attention, rings the bell for another member of staff. One of the downstairs maids hurries into the hall, and Graves pushes it into her hands.

“To Mrs. Graves.” He grunts. She nods once and scurries off. Graves turns back to Credence, “And  _you-”_  One of his hands is in the small of Credence’s back, propelling him down the hall.

Credence stumbles into motion, “S-Sir?”

“Shh.” Graves hushes him.

They’re moving up the stairs, two at a time, and then they’re at the master bathroom door. Credence blinks as Graves ushers him through it. He perches Credence at the edge of the sink, and then throws open the taps in the tub.

“O-Oh, if y-you wanted a bath, sir-” Credence begins, then stops as Graves’s fingers rise to his throat to begin undoing his cravat, “…Sir?”

“If you don’t get warm, you’ll be sick.” Graves tells him, matter-of-fact, and Credence’s cheeks bloom with heat.

“You don’t have to-”

Graves shushes him again, and Credence falls silent as the man undoes the buttons of his waistcoat. It falls against the tile with a heavy slap as he pushes it over the boy’s shoulders. Graves pushes wet curls behind his ears, and Credence can’t remember the last time he’s had someone’s hands on him like this, careful and insistent both at once, commanding. He feels himself begin to shake anew.

Graves keeps his jaw locked. In a minute or two, the boy is in his linens. The older man sucks in a breath as he shucks them as well, leaving Credence exposed, long-limbed and quivering.

“In.” Graves grunts to keep himself from staring.

Credence’s voice is a tiny thing in his chest, “Y-Yes, sir.”

Graves supports him as he flounders into the tub. The heat of it knocks up into him, pries a small, pleased whimper out of his throat. His muscles unspool in it, although his knees remain against his chest for modesty. He sees Graves discard his own coat and roll up his shirtsleeves, and then there is a rush of warmth over his back as the older man dips a pitcher into the bath and pours the contents over his tangled wet hair.

“ _Oh._ ” He breathes quietly.

Graves is motionless beside him for a moment, “…Better?” He murmurs.

Credence can only nod in response. He feels Graves’s fingers wind into his curls, wringing the last remains of cold rainwater from them, and shivers beneath his touch. The heat of Graves’s breath ghosts over the back of his neck.

“Thank you, sir…” his voice is barely a whisper.

“Mm.”

Graves’s mouth is dry. He imagines pushing it into the hollow of the boy’s neck, licking away the droplets that cling to his skin. Biting down to watch reds and purples bloom in the pale flesh. Sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek instead. He allows himself to slide a palm up along the length of the boy’s neck, then regrets it immediately when he feels him lean into the touch, a soft sigh parting his lips.

“Credence…”

The boy shifts to look back over his shoulder, dark eyes are wide. Graves takes his jaw in one palm, and feels himself struggling for purchase as he pulls the pad of one thumb across the softness of his mouth. Wants, desperately, to push the digit into the wet heat of him and feel him suck on it, hear him mewl with pleasure in his throat.

He grinds himself to a halt just before he can play with the boy’s lower lip, lets his hand fall to his side once more, “…Thank you.”

Credence, pupils blown, is mute for a few seconds before he can stammer out a tight, “Y-…you’re welcome, sir.”

Graves steadies himself, allows himself a final squeeze of both the younger man’s shoulders, “Take your time. Get warm.” His voice is flat, foreign, and he hears it only distantly as he draws back from the fleeting warmth of Credence’s skin, closes his fingers at his side to savor the last hints of it.

Credence’s arms tighten around his knees, “…Thank you, sir.”

Graves is in the doorframe, nodding, hesitating. The planes of Credence’s back cry out to his hands, his teeth. He thanks whatever god might be listening that he’s turned away from him, can’t see the outline of his aching hardness in his trousers. Somewhere in his mind, he imagines that he can hear his own name on the boy’s lips as he closes the door. 

The sound of wind and rain wailing through the front door jerks him from his thoughts. He shoves a hand back through his hair and begins down the stairs, thinking it blown open by the storm. Instead, he finds Tina in front of it, soaked hair clinging to her cheeks, struggling to force it shut in the gale. He blinks, then quickly sets his hands on the door over her shoulders, and together they push it closed once more.

“Tina, you-”

She’s breathing heavily as she turns to face him, and her cheeks are ruddy, “P-Percival-”

His eyes narrow, “…Did you-…you didn’t go to the Kowalskis’…?” No, he’d seen her for dinner, there wouldn’t have been time.

“No.” She shakes her head, “I just- I was making sure the horses were shut in, I-”

Graves pauses, “…You were out in the stables?”

Her face reddens further, “You had Barebone ride the mare you like so much, I made certain they were taking care of her.”

“They?”

“The groom that was in the stable.”

“Which one?”

Tina frowns deeply, “What does it matter?”

Graves’s expression mirrors hers, “Tina…”

“No, tell me why it matters.” She leans back against the door, arms crossed.

“It-…you-”

“I what, Percival? I what?” Her jaw is tight, voice clipped.

Graves’s fingers curl at his sides, “Was it the groundskeeper?”

“What if it was?”

His breath is sticking in his throat, but he swallows it back, “You just seem especially fond of your new hire.”

“I hired the Barebone boy, too, didn’t I?!” She snaps.

For a few moments, they are both silent, staring. Then, Tina covers her mouth with one hand.

“Oh, Percy-” She begins from behind her fingers, eyes welling.

“You-” He can hear the blood rushing in his ears, “You hired him for-”

“I-I just-” She stammers, “Percy, we’ve never even-”

Graves looks back over his shoulder, towards the second floor of the house, towards the master bath where he images Credence is resting, splayed and naked beneath the water, in his room, in  _their_ room. He lifts one hand, holds his forehead in it, thumb and middle finger pressed to the bridge of his nose.

“Tina.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Go to bed.” He tells her.

Her lips purse, and she swallows. When she speaks, it’s barely loud enough to reach his ears, “…Where?”

Graves winces, “I- a guest room, the guest cottage, the  _stable,_ wherever you want.”

Tina draws in a long, slow breath. Then, after a moment, she lifts her chin, eyes clear, “…Good night, Percy.”

He watches her sweep past him towards the downstairs hall, the few out of the way guest rooms furthest from their own.

“…Good night, Tina.”

 

* * *

 

Gondolphus is talking, at length, about something. Graves isn’t certain what, hasn’t been since Tina joined them at the breakfast table. She’s making idle conversation with Cordelia, but he can see the tightness in her back, the way that her hands flit nervously over the silverware as she speaks. That the ugly thing living in between them, finally expressed, is sprawled across the length of the table, tongue lolling, for both of them to watch.

“…don’t you think?” Gondolphus is asking him, and Graves murmurs enough of an “mm” in reply that the older man plows onward.

Tina’s gaze lifts at the sound of his voice. He drinks in the shape of her face as if she were a stranger to him, the delicate point of her chin, her full cheeks and slender nose. Someone, anyone, could love her. Should love her. And he likes her, he does. But her eyes are glassy again, and he has to look down to his plate.

“Oh, soon, to be sure.” He hears her tell Cordelia.

“Wouldn’t it be so lovely, by Christmas?” Cordelia replies, and there’s that lilt of force in her voice that she uses to make her desires plain, “Wouldn’t it, my dear? Imagine it, spending Christmas with such sweet expectations.”

“Lovely, certainly.” Tina repeats, and it’s quietly enough to Graves knows, he  _knows,_ and it’s the helplessness in it that drives him up and out of his seat.

“Percival?” His father’s brows lift.

“Forgive me, I’d forgotten that I’d promised to speak with one of the neighbors this morning.” Graves strains as he sets his napkin down on his chair.

“But it’s so early-”

He’s already pushing his way through the kitchen door, aimed towards the one to the yard on the other side of the room. The boy is there, of  _course_ he’s there, long limbs folded onto one of the stools in the corner of the kitchen as he takes his own solitary breakfast. He pauses, a forkful of eggs lifted halfway to his mouth, when Graves stalks in.

“M-Mister Graves?” He stammers.

Graves keeps his eyes on the opposite door, bites back on the desire to look to the boy, hears Tina’s voice in his mind,  _I hired the Barebone boy, too_. He crosses the kitchen in a few long strides, and then he’s flinging the door open and bursting into the outside. Behind him, he can hear Credence scrabbling to right himself, then the sound of the footsteps hurrying after his own. He sets his jaw and pushes forward, out past the chicken coops, the back side of the fountains and into the hedge garden, into the relative comfort of the walls of deep green hiding the house from sight.

“Sir?” The boy calls from behind him. Graves’s step stutters.

“Is everything all right, sir?” He’s closer now, must be in the garden with him.

Graves glances back over his shoulder. There’s color high in Credence’s cheeks, a pale pink that Graves wants to smear his thumbs over to see if it rubs off on his hands.

“I-” He realizes that he’s not certain how to go on, and his voice drops back down into his throat.

“I-Is it your father, sir? Not to pry! I only-” Credence bites his lip, “Y-You look vexed, sir.”

Graves nearly groans. Instead, he grinds one palm over his mouth, sighs into it, “…I am.”

“Is there anything I can do, sir?”

His voice is so soft, so delicate, and suddenly Graves’s hands are in his dark curls, Credence’s back pushed up into the hedges, and Graves is kissing him like he’s water, like he’s breath for his lungs. Hungry, bruising kisses that redden the boy’s lips with the force of them. Credence lets out a stilted whimper against Graves’s mouth. Graves jerks back to apologize, but finds Credence’s hands fisted in the back of his coat.

“S-Sir…” The boy manages, eyes wide, lips parted, and then Graves devours him again and his entire body wrenches up to meet the older man’s.

By the time they break apart for air, Credence is quaking against him, one of Graves’ thighs pressed up between his. He’s mewling _sir, please, yes, sir_ over and over again as Graves drags his cravat apart and attacks the curve of his neck, hips jerking when the older man pushes a hand down into his trousers to palm at his arousal. Graves’s name is on his lips, once, twice, three times as he spends himself through the man’s fingers minutes later.

Graves supports him with an arm around his slender waist as Credence drags himself, leaves clinging to the back of his shirtsleeves, out from the hedge.

“Sir, I-”

“Stay on.” Graves says simply.

Credence watches him, breath still warm and heavy, and then, curling his fingers into the other man’s jacket once more, nods.

  

* * *

 

Credence’s lips feel like they’re burning, along with the rest of his body, and he can’t quite think straight. At the sound of Tina and Cordelia’s voices making their way onto the balcony, he’d fled to the kitchen, which was blessedly empty, to brush his fingers over them, to chase the ghost of the touch of Mister Graves’ mouth against him.

Footsteps sound, and he nearly jumps when he sees Graves framed in the doorway of the kitchen.

“Credence…”

Credence yanks his glasses off the bridge of his nose, stowing them away in his hand before he sinks into a short bow. He feels his hair fall about his face when he dips his head, only somewhat hiding him from the man’s view, “Yes, sir?”

“Did she tell you? You didn’t know, I-…this is her design. You don’t need to be afraid that you’re stealing me away from Mrs. Graves.”

Credence blinks, and then glances up at the man, faintly blurry at the distance he stands. Something like hope is threatening to rip through him and send him running right towards him, “What- …what are you saying?”

Graves is walking closer, step by step, becoming more defined by the second. His gait is slow, as if he’s approaching a cornered animal, and in truth, perhaps that’s what Credence is, “I’m saying, if you want, if you like, you can dine at my side, accompany me to town, to the opera. To dinner wherever you choose. Somewhere. Anywhere.”

Credence can feel his heart pounding in his ears. He barely feels the man’s hand on his face, had hardly realized he’d gotten so close, “But what if people saw us, what would they say? Think?”

Graves is smiling, rubbing his thumb over Credence’s cheekbones and down to graze his lips, which he parts willingly, watching as the older man inhales sharply, “Mister Graves and his valet are out, together. Nothing wrong with that. They don’t need to know what goes on at the estate.”

Credence sets his glasses down on the nearest flat surface before they can be crushed in his thoughtless grip, then reaches out with both hands. The heated, passionate kiss in the gardens that had led to so much more almost pales in comparison to their second embrace, fevered touches, as Graves pulls Credence so close that he can barely tell where he ends and the older man begins. He feels for the door at his back, reaching blindly behind him to fumbling it open. Graves guides them both to Credence’s small, private room, and the boy smiles slightly when he hears him lock it shut.

“Do you want that? Do you want to be with me Credence?” Graves is asking, his voice a harsh whisper.

Credence can only nod, desperate for more, for hands back on his body, places where he had only ever dreamt of touching himself. Only when he’d been trapped in the heat of the moment, after sharing a moment with the man in the morning, dressing him or bringing him breakfast in bed, feeling as if he was being tortured by each fragment of skin he’d caught sight of.

“God, you’ll be the death of me.”

The man is pressing his mouth to Credence’s neck, hands flicking open buttons and undoing fasteners with equal speed, until Credence is only standing in his undershirt and pants, shaking slightly before the man.

“I’ve only ever put you into things, never taken you out.” The boy can’t help quipping. Seeing the other man flush is otherworldly.

“You are correct. I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to keep you at my side, keep you on your knees, tell you to do more, to put your hands back on me-” Graves takes one of the boy’s hands and guides it to press against the front of his trousers. Credence’s heart skips a beat at the hardness he can feel there, beneath three layers of fabric.

“This is what you do to me, my boy.”

Credence merely leans in to press a quick kiss to the man’s mouth before doing just as he knows Graves wants, falling to his knees before him. The man’s hand quickly finds his hair, fingers stroking against his scalp, and Credence makes quick work of his trousers so that he can finally slip a hand inside and touch the firm heat of the man’s cock. He feels the hand in his hair tighten a bit to nudge him forward, until he’s almost kissing the man’s skin. When he looks up, Graves is watching him as if he couldn’t bear to look anywhere else in the whole world.

“Credence, please.”

Credence isn’t sure what the man is asking him for, but knows that all he wants in the world is to do just that, to  _please_  him. He strokes a hand fully over Graves’s shaft before dipping closer to brush his lips over the head, already slick with the man’s arousal. He feels before he hears the groan that vibrates from Graves’s throat.

“God…”

Credence is content to devote his attentions to satisfying the man as long as he wants, but when Graves starts to breathe harder, his hips moving of their own accord, the fingers in his hair give a light tug to pull him back. He obeys, letting the man’s cock slip out of his mouth with a slick pop.

“Come along, now, your knees must ache. Take off your underclothes, then into the bed with you.”

Credence can’t help blushing again, but does as he’s told, carefully shucking his flannels. He’s shivering faintly when he climbs atop his small mattress. When he turns to look, Graves is removing his own clothing in much less methodical manner. He opens his mouth to protest the wrinkles that are surely imminent, but finds himself caught in a glance from Graves that suggests that it hardly matters. When the older man stalks back over to him, leans down to press another kiss to his lips, Credence groans at the feeling of so much bare skin rubbing against his own. The weight of the other man’s body on his own is more welcome than he can even begin to express.

When the man’s hand caresses down the side of his body, Credence arches into the touch, jumping only slightly when fingers dipped around to squeeze at one of his buttocks. He feels Graves’s hips roll smoothly into his own, and finds his legs parting of their own volition. He isn’t certain quite what they could or would do beyond using hands or mouth to bring one another to pleasure, but is content to let the man lead him, guide him, teach him all that he could know to become a good lover.

“You’re beautiful, do you know that?” The man’s words seem to dance over his skin, even as his lips do the same, dragging over and down his neck and collarbone.

Credence finds himself nodding despite his disagreement, “Thank you. So are you, sir.”

Graves chuckles, teeth nipping slightly at his right shoulder, causing the boy to buck up against him. It sends a small frisson of heat flaring through him, when the movement makes their cocks momentarily align, “You flatter me.”

“I don’t usually do this sort of thing for just anyone, sir.” Credence can’t help teasing him. It earns him another small laugh, alongside a hand stroking up the length of his cock, the thumb swiped over the slick head, ripping a gasp from his throat.

“Has anyone ever done for you what you did for me with your mouth? Made you come?”

Credence shakes his head at once, sure he’s turning bright red, “Never, sir.”

 “May I?”

Credence blinks up at the man. Graves is hovering just above his chest, a hand splayed over his left thigh, the other on his stomach.

“I-If you like, sir…” Credence breathes.

Graves grins, wolfish, “I’d more than like it. Hold still.”

The man returns his lips to Credence’s skin, first trailing a wet line of kisses down his stomach and past his navel, then rubbing his cheek along the line of his cock. Credence fights to keep from squirming into the contact, and then all at once Graves is mouthing along the shaft, using his tongue in obscene strokes against the sensitive skin.

“…. _God!”_  Credence brings a hand to his own mouth, biting the knuckles to keep from calling out too loudly.

The man takes him fully into his mouth and Credence’s hips jolt against his will. A firm hand squeezes at his thigh to help guide him back down. How had Graves not lost himself almost immediately from a touch like this? When he feels the man swallow around his length, his vision whites out. Only a few more moments pass before he’s reaching down with both hands, one with several his own teeth marks on the back, to fist the man’s hair, mussing it beyond repair, as he begs.

Graves doesn’t seem to mind. He applies a bit of suction with his lips and hums lightly against Credence’s cock, and the boy is gone, off, drifting among the stars, legs trembling and mouth going slack as he turns to shove his cheek to the pillow, words failing him. There’s something hot, wet against the top of his thigh when the man shifts back up the bed, leaning upon his body again, kissing him more than a little roughly. His tongue licks deep into Credence’s mouth, and Credence can taste just a hint of bitter and salt that he knows is from his own spend.

“M-Mister Graves… oh, sir, that was…”

“Heavenly?” The man murmurs, and then he’s tugging Credence’s hand, the one he’d put to his mouth to help silence his cries, up to his lips and kissing it tenderly over the distressed skin.

“Sir, please, let me-”

“Shh. You think you have not brought me the same rapturous joy? Rest."

Another kiss, this time to his temple, and Credence smiles dreamily, before nodding, and doing as his master had commanded. His final thought before sleep overtakes him is that finally, one of his closest, most common dreams has come true; Graves is here beside him, in his bed.

Graves shifts to bring the boy into his arms, lets the tangle of curls come to rest on his chest. His fingers snake up into the dark locks. Outside, he imagines Tina, her hands tight on the balcony, looking out over the estate. Gradually, distantly, he can see her smiling, leaning back against the groundskeeper’s shoulder as he teaches her to coax butterflies close, lists the names of fish and fowl as they cross their path. The boy in the crook of his arm shudders, pushes his face up into the hollow of Graves’s neck, and Graves finds that the image no longer pricks him.

 


End file.
